Page 8 of The Unbecoming

This time, I fill the tub with scalding hot water and sit to think for a moment. The water is so hot that it almost feels cold. It turns my skin a bright shade of red.

I don’t fight the urge as hard tonight. It feels almost too easy to bring the blade to my wrist. I feel almost numb as I dig the blade into my skin. I know I’m cutting too deep when my bath water starts turning a pretty shade of crimson red. I drop the razor to the tile before holding my arm up to watch myself bleed.

It’s almost terrifying how calm I am right now. The noise is silent, and I can think clearly. I know that tomorrow I need to approach things differently and keep control of the conversation better.

Eventually, I find some sort of baseline for long enough that I can get myself out of the tub to hold pressure. Once I get it to stop bleeding, I use skin glue to close the cut before bandaging it.

I crawl into bed and wrap the blanket around my body, trying to keep the monsters out. Sleep doesn’t come easily, and I slip into my nightmares.

Chapter Six

Nora

Another day. Another interview.

I’ve already bled through my bandage once today since it reopened in my sleep. It’s not bleeding as badly, but I definitely cut way too deep this time. I should probably get stitches, but they will put my mental health on record and risk a seventy-two-hour hold.

The same guard walks me back, and I feel more prepared today. I am wearing black slacks and a cardigan again today, but my shirt is blood red. How fitting, considering I might bleed on it at some point.

When the guard opens the door, I walk in like I didn’t flee just yesterday. “You came back,” Gabriel says. He sounds surprised.

“I did,” I say, sitting across from him.

“Why?”

“Because this interview is a third of my grade, but you knew that already,” I say. “How has your time here in jail been for you?”

“It’s jail,” he says simply. “I get the bare minimum, and I’m alone. I’d say it’s not too bad.”

“Most people wouldn’t handle solitary confinement well,” I remark as I write “Antisocial” in my notebook. He looks at my paper, and then me. “Something wrong, Mr. Ashcroft?”

“How was your evening after becoming triggered?” he asks. “I’d imagine childhood trauma comes with nightmares, no?”

“Do you have personal experience with childhood trauma?” I ask. "Many serial offenders experienced significant trauma in childhood. Late childhood and early adolescence seem to be particularly formative. Is that where your story starts?"

“What story is that?” he asks. “What age did Daddy visit your bed for the first time?”

“You keep going back to an assumption of my childhood as though you are projecting your own trauma,” I say. “The victims’ bodies did not have any signs of sexual abuse. That’s not to say that the crimes weren’t sexualized in some way, though.”

“How often do you self-harm?” he asks, pointing to my arm. I glance at my wrist, and my sleeve has come up enough to show the bandage. Blood is seeping through, and it’s undeniable. I simply pull my sleeve down to cover it before moving on.

“How would you describe your relationship with your parents during these formative years?”

“Volatile,” he says simply

Finally, a fucking answer.

“How so?” I ask.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Excuse me?” I ask. “That’s not how interviews work, Mr. Ashcroft.”

“No, it’s how conversations work,” he says. “You tell me one truth, I tell you one truth.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting back. “I will graduate at the top of my class in May.”

“Congratulations,” he says with a simple smile. “My parents divorced when I was ten.”